Letters
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: America commits suicide, and everyone writes letters. He can't read them. From the perspectives of FACE.
1. England

My dearest America,

Damn you, you fucking bastard. I can't put into words how much I hate you. I hate you because of the funeral.

I stared and stared, even after it was over. A couple other people were there, but none of them stayed as long as I did. I figured you would pop out at any second. You were never good at reading the atmosphere, and you probably wouldn't have thought that we would be upset.

No, scratch that. You would never do something like that— you never wanted any of us to be sad. I figured you would pop out because it felt so unreal to see the grave of someone who used to live and breathe. It was quite a shock when you just decided not to anymore. I don't think I'll ever get used to your absence.

So there I was, at your funeral. The whole world was there, even Cuba, and the whole world was appalled. Damn you. You had so much to do. Everyone was so shocked because we didn't know what would happen now. Your country was doing fine—is doing fine. So why are you gone?

I'd like to think that you'll be alive forever. Not in the present, but you'll live through the past. We cannot change the past, and thus around two-hundred-forty years claim that you are alive and breathing. You are alive and breathing in the past, and the past is forever. I'd like to imagine your status hasn't changed, but that's hard to do when all of your social media accounts were shut down.

I would give anything to log onto one of my accounts and see your twenty posts for the day.

After the funeral, nobody talked for days. The first World Meeting was postponed, and then it was canceled. The second meeting was canceled. Nobody wanted to show up. Nobody talked to just one person but instead talked to the entire world. There was no closeness, only a bold challenge. It seems impossible that you could rip the world apart and yet bring it closer together, America. You always did have a knack for doing the extremely unlikely, though, didn't you?

America, I loved you. I love you. I wish I could've begged you to not do this.

America, do you remember when you were little? I know we never talked about it. It was a forbidden topic, because it made both of us extremely uncomfortable. I never wanted to talk about it because I could never talk about what you were like while keeping a straight face. I wanted to share the memories you might've forgotten. I wanted to tell you how much you meant to me.

I wanted to tell you that I regret absolutely nothing, that I thought of you often and that during that time you were the only light in my life. I wanted to tell you that I'm glad you chose me. I wanted to tell you that I would never, ever change anything about that time period.

But now? I don't care about that. It's too late anyway. I want to tell you that I wish I had spent more time with you. I wish I had let you know how much you meant to me.

I'll tell you about your funeral, because I wanted you to know. You were the first nation to be buried. You were the first nation to have a funeral where everyone in the world was there. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was there, though those that hated you during your life stayed near the back.

It was not a fitting day for a funeral. It was actually extremely sunny out. It felt cruel. Not a cloud in the sky. Nature wasn't mourning with us. Still, it felt surprisingly fitting. It was the kind of day you would've liked— sunny with blue skies, with wind rustling the grass. The clouds did roll in, but they didn't cover the sky completely, and you would've liked that too. I never stopped to look at things like that before. And the sunset— yes, even though your funeral was in the afternoon, I was there for the sunset— was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So many colours tinged the sky. It almost looked as if it had been painted; the clouds turned to a purple-pink-orange, and the sun set right there.

I'm sure you would've thought it was beautiful, too. You really did die before you could experience everything. I wish you could've been there. I wish I had showed up to your invitation. We could've watched the sunset here, together, and you would be there next to me instead of in the ground.

Instead, I watched the sun set on the final day that I would ever see you.

I looked into all the hero stuff that you've sent me over the years. I boxed all of it awhile back and put it in a storage area, mostly because I didn't want to be rude and say I threw it away. I was thinking of it during the funeral— didn't heroes usually come back? Wouldn't heroes comfort people?

Anyway, you truly were a superhero. I mean, you could stop cars with the heel of your foot. You could drag them across land. That was very neat, I suppose. But also, you were never tempted by anything bad like the rest of us were— while your country might've been, you never had your full heart set on hurting others. You always preferred to help them. I'm so sorry that we always hated you because of your country.

Of course those things couldn't have been your fault— you never could've possibly influenced your presidents, and you had a new one every few years; you were just there to take orders. And yet we all hated you because of your presidents, because of unpopular opinions your leaders had, because of what you had to do because you were told to do so.

Enough of that, though, because if I tried to apologize for that I would sit next to you (or, rather, above you) forever.

Remember how you invited me everytime a new superhero movie came out? I always rejected you, always moved plans around so there was no time. I watched all of them throughout last week. I regret that I couldn't have watched them with you.

I know you always wanted a happy ending. You told me once that you imagined yourself as a hero because you liked to pretend you were doing good things, and you would earn a bright future and a happy ending. You wanted to imagine that you would be happy one day, America. You and I were never that close again.

This is anything but a happy ending. There is nothing good about this ending. I wish you could've seen that.

My dearest,

I miss you. I wish you could've seen that. I wish you could've seen the sunset. I wish you could've predicted what would happen, that you could've seen how hellish the world seems without you, wish you could've seen how hard it is to get news from your country because it hurts and none of us ever know what to search for, wish you could see us grieving over the hundred-fiftieth shooting this year just as you might have. I wish you could've seen how horribly this impacted our lives, wish you could've seen how bright you were, wish we could've told you— hell, I wish you were here to laugh at all these run-on sentences, sentences that aren't properly joined so it sounds more like a command rather than something I long for. I wish you were here to laugh at me and tell me how horrible the scones that I made _two years ago especially for you _were. You told me my scones were horrible two years after I made them for you. That always struck me as odd. But now I would talk about anything and everything with you if I could. Anything to make you stay for awhile longer.

You thought you had seen everything, America. But when is two-hundred-forty years ever enough?

We all miss you. Everyone.

Sincerely,

England


	2. France

Dear America,

You are a reverse puzzle. You were so easy to put together and so hard to put away. It was so hard to see how the pieces might _not _fit together. It was all too easy to quickly say things about you, to quickly place you into a category, and not think about you anymore.

Eventually, the time _did _come when we needed to put you away. The funeral was difficult, to say the least. I know a few people stayed longer than need be. I wanted to, but I already had other business to attend to later.

I'm so sorry. Even then I couldn't clear my schedule.

I wonder if you ever think of all the time we did spend together, when I wasn't so busy. Clearly you think—thought— of the past. Did you know you were loved?

It wasn't your funeral that bugged me. It was the fact that we couldn't mark your grave. It felt like it would be wrong to make up your birth year. We couldn't put 1776.

We didn't even give you a gravestone. No markers.

Instead, we buried you just underneath a brilliant statue. You would've loved it.

When people look at it, when your citizens look at it, they won't know you. They won't think of you. So is it really enough?

It's difficult for every country to lose their citizens. It just occurred to me that you had no one to talk about these things with— except for England, when you were little, but knowing England that talk probably sucked.

How much did you feel, then? When everything happened? When the shootings averaged higher than days? Is that why you did this? Did we do something wrong?

Your note was weird. I didn't know I could cry over nothing.

America, you were so sweet. You always feel sorry for everything that happens. You never hold grudges. Most people aren't like that.

Sincerely,

France


	3. Canada

Dear America,

I was the one who found you.

It was a World Meeting. Everyone was getting impatient because you weren't there, but none of them wanted to come get you. I did instead. I didn't even tell anyone before I left.

Your pantries were empty. Everything, except for the bones of every layout of every room, were gone.

If the walls were the bones of your house, you were the skin. I won't say something just _felt _off, because nothing felt off. It doesn't even seem reasonable that something should feel off just because a house is devoid of life. Your house looked the same as it always did, aside from the missing furniture and food. It felt the same, too.

I looked everywhere for you. I couldn't find you. I searched your house three times.

Your house is huge, you know that? Why do you need so much space?

Actually, I guess a better question is: Why did you need so much space?

Anyway, as I was saying, I searched everywhere for you. You weren't anywhere, or so I thought. Finally, I noticed an open door that I hadn't considered before.

Your storage room.

When I walked in, you were slumped over an old rocking chair. You were curled up. You looked like you were crying.

You were silent.

You were hugging a bayonet to your chest, your cheek pressed against the blade. It had a scratch on it. I don't think you shot yourself with it.

There was a pistol in your other hand.

It's funny, because I know just how much you were hated before you died. It seems that everyone is so upset now, though. They're all acting like they loved you.

Did they, really?

I know that there were a lot of people that really did.

Sincerely,

Canada


	4. America

Hi.

I stabbed my hand with a pencil today, you know. Which is an interesting thing to have happen, and I'm sure I'm rambling like I always do, and I'm sure you're bored, and I'm sorry, but I needed you to know. I stabbed my hand with a pencil.

It was an accident, but it happened. I managed to fuck up my hand pretty bad. That's why my handwriting is bad.

I've felt bad for a long time, and maybe I'll always be bad. Once you become bad, you can't just be good. You can't be a hero.

And anyway, I've felt bad for a long time, but these days I feel really bad.

It hurts to write, so I suppose I should get on with this now.

Thanks for everything.

Sincerely,

America


End file.
